The Pond

While the half-frozen lip of ice
that ringed the pond
sucked in the tips of your skates,
folding your ankles,
driving you to your knees
and elbows,

you could hear the sweep of your father’s blades
slicing, pushing, gliding,
the sound of effortless grace,
first an echo,
then a mantra
while you gouged the winter solitude
with staccato insults,
chipping, hacking
fighting for purchase
in a world that treats friction
with disdain.

You got up, again and again,
limbs so heavy with soggy clothes
hardening to a suit of armor
that you tried to throw them off
like a bucking horse,
frantic to drown out the beats
that drummed like fists of ice
in your head, exploding

from inside the hypnotic resonance
of slice, push, glide
as your father circled backwards,
weightless in his long, easy crossovers,
smiling each time around,
wordlessly urging you forward,
extending a hand,
a hand you could never reach.